


seven times black

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Self-Harm, Severe Depression, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2011 for this prompt on KMM: <i>When love is not enough: Merlin has serious problems with his family (and possibly his own health); he cuts himself and progressively damages himself in every possible way, especially whenever Arthur's not there to keep him sane. Arthur needs to work and he can't possibly stick with him 24/7, so he has to take a decision that he truly hopes he's never going to regret. He asks for doctors' help who're going to take his Merlin away from him, but cure him and bring back to him his un-damaged and whole lover.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	seven times black

Arthur grips the steering wheel tightly, trying to block out the noise of blaring horns in the late evening traffic. Peak hour traffic is always a nuisance, but tonight he’d give anything for a clear road.

He wedges his phone between his ear and shoulder as he tries Merlin’s number again. It rings fifteen times before it goes to voicemail. ‘Merlin, it’s me. Again. I’m on my way home, stuck in traffic. I’ll see you soon, okay?’ 

He’s hung up already when he realises he hadn’t signed off with _I love you_ , and wishes he hadn’t forgotten. Merlin had called once, that afternoon, to ask if Arthur could be home early. Arthur hadn’t been able to promise that he would, and when Merlin had called again around six in the evening, he’d been too busy to answer the phone.

He’s tried calling back six times since then, but there hasn’t been any response. The uneasy feeling in his stomach has been growing exponentially with every unanswered call, as though someone were inflating a balloon inside his chest, tight and too-large, and he feels as though he might burst with anxiety. 

 

\--

 

He takes the stairs three at a time, too full of nervous energy to wait for the lift to take him to their second-floor flat.

‘Merlin?’ he calls as he unlocks the door. Merlin’s Audi had been in its usual spot when Arthur had parked his SUV beside it, so he’s home. Probably asleep or listening to music, Arthur tells himself as he all but runs to the bedroom and flings the door open. No one there.

He opens the door to the en-suite bathroom, his heart pounding. ‘Merlin?’ That’s empty too, the shower curtain drawn back to reveal a wet floor. 

It’s when he steps out that he sees Merlin’s shoe on the floor on the far side of the room, beside their bed. 

His mind switches to autopilot as he takes a step toward it, wondering vaguely what a shoe is doing in the middle of the floor. The mystery is soon solved. 

Merlin is still wearing it.

He’s curled into himself as he does when he sleeps, arms folded protectively over his face, one leg bent and the other flung out. His hair is still wet and glistening from the shower. 

Blood has spread around him in a slow pool, the gashes in his wrists like half-closed eyes concealing secrets.

 

\--

 

Six months earlier

 

‘I think it’s happening again,’ Merlin says, facing the window, his back to Arthur.

Even half-befuddled with sleep, Arthur knows instantly what he’s talking about. He scrambles out of bed and wraps his arms around Merlin from the back, knowing that his arms can only give the illusion of safety.

He’s suspected as much for days now. Merlin’s recent paintings are all unfinished, and there are times when he seems to float into a daze, his eyes blank and unseeing. His skin is pale, ashen even. 

It terrifies Arthur.

The worst is when Merlin begins wearing long-sleeved sweaters all the time and making excuses to not shower with Arthur, to make love in the dark so Arthur can’t see the cuts on his arms. When Arthur wordlessly pushes the soft cotton of the black sleeve that falls over his knuckles, Merlin says nothing in response. He just buries his face in Arthur’s chest and sobs as though his heart is breaking.

So is Arthur’s.

They go to visit Dr Gaius together, Merlin clutching Arthur’s hand tightly throughout the appointment. When Dr Gaius writes out a prescription, Merlin turns imploring eyes on Arthur before turning back to the doctor.

‘Gaius, I can’t. I can’t take those medicines. They make me feel like I’m _dead_ , I can’t do anything, I can’t paint, I can’t eat, Gaius, _please_.’

‘Isn’t there any other kind of treatment we could try?’ Arthur asks, rubbing his thumb along Merlin’s, holding his hand tightly.

Gaius turns his wise, kindly eyes to Arthur. ‘I wish there were something else I could recommend, Arthur. But this is the only thing that will help.’ He stands up and places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing gently. ‘Take heart, my dear boy. When you feel better, we’ll reduce the dose. All right?’

 

\--

 

For the next couple of months, Merlin seems to be improving. He doesn’t get much painting done but he’s begun teaching a course at a local art school, which gets him out of the house on most days, forces him to maintain a routine.

Some days he almost seems his old self, the laughing, brilliant young man Arthur had met at university, full of spirit and so beautiful that it almost aches to look at him. One evening Arthur cooks his favourite meal—pasta with spinach and mushrooms in white sauce with homemade garlic bread—and they share a bottle of wine over the meal, talking and laughing. Later, Merlin begs to be fucked over the kitchen table, responding with exuberance when Arthur grants him his wish, gripping Arthur’s hair with his fingers, wrapping his long legs around Arthur’s waist and dirty-talking them both to orgasm.

 

\--

 

Present day

 

Arthur sits in the sterile, colourless corridor, his fingers clutching his hair, his head bowed. Lance and Gwen are on either side of him, are talking quietly over his head, Gwen’s hand gently stroking his hair and Lance’s hand on his knee, strong and sturdy.

‘Arthur?’ he hears Gwen say, and knows from her tone that it’s not the first time she’s said his name.

‘Yeah,’ he says to the floor, his voice thick with tears, not wanting to face anyone yet.

‘He’s going to be okay, mate,’ Lance reminds him. ‘You know he is. The doctors said so.’

‘I know,’ Arthur says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve as he sits up. ‘I know. But we may not be so lucky next time.’

He doesn’t have to look at the others to know they’re exchanging a glance.

‘What makes you think there’ll be a next time?’ Gwen asks cautiously. 

‘All the signs are there, Gwen. All the fucking signs were there, and I didn’t notice. He called me today and I didn’t answer the phone because I was too fucking busy. I could have prevented this, I could have...’ Arthur shakes his head and gets to his feet. ‘Go home, you two. It’s late.’ He goes back into Merlin’s room and shuts the door behind him.

 

\--

 

‘Arthur?’ Merlin says as he enters, his voice fuzzy with drug-induced sleep.

‘Hey,’ Arthur says gently, sitting down beside him. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, love. How do you feel?’

‘You didn’t,’ Merlin says, his voice hoarse. ‘I was awake. Arthur...’

‘What is it?’ Arthur smoothes the hair back from Merlin’s forehead. His skin is clammy to the touch.

‘Why are you so good to me?’

‘Merlin—’

‘No, really. You should be furious. You should hate me.’

Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin carefully, minding his injured wrists and the needle in his vein. ‘I love you. I always will. I love you, Merlin.’

Merlin tucks his head beneath Arthur’s chin, his face hidden in Arthur’s neck. ‘You should have let me die,’ he whispers.

‘I can’t,’ Arthur replies, his hand on the crown of Merlin’s head, his lips pressed into Merlin’s hair. ‘I can’t, Merlin. You know I have to fight for you.’ 

‘I want this. Please, I just want it to be over. Please, Arthur, let me go. Let me go, please.’

Arthur feels the wetness against his skin and lets Merlin cry, keeping his arms tight around him, his heart breaking yet again.

 

\--

 

Sunlight pours into his studio from the large French windows that look on to the balcony. It makes him feel warm, even if everything is much too bright. Especially bright are the pristine white bandages around his wrists, a constant reminder of his failure. They’re in his line of vision every time he lifts his hand to paint, every time he lifts it to rub his dry, tired eyes. Ever since the night in the hospital, the tears refuse to come. He should be grateful.

There is a soft knock at the door, and Gwen’s dark, curly head looks in. ‘Hey. Brought you some tea. Can I come in?’

‘Of course, you don’t have to ask.’ He puts his brush down on the palette, disguising his relief under a smile. He knows it probably looks more like a grimace.

They take their tea out on the balcony, Gwen tucking her legs up beneath her as she sits on the floor and Merlin stretching out beside her, his back against the wall. He takes a sip from his mug, savouring the taste of cardamom, letting it warm him, soothe him. 

‘Good?’ Gwen smiles, reaching to squeeze his hand.

He nods, turning his hand beneath hers to link their fingers. ‘Thanks for doing this. You and Lance. It can’t be easy to babysit a suicidal maniac.’ The words come out before he can stop them, and he winces.

‘Don’t.’ Gwen squeezes his hand tightly. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

‘No, I shouldn’t be hard on myself. Because everyone has a right to fuck with their lives and hurt their friends, right?’

Gwen exhales audibly. ‘I won’t lie to you, Merlin. What you did... it scared me.’ She reaches out, gently pushes his hair back from his temple. ‘But more than anything else, it’s hell on Arthur.’

He’s been expecting this, and knows Gwen has probably been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But he’s just making it worse by keeping me prisoner, you know?’ 

‘Merlin, you’re not a prisoner. He’s just afraid.’

‘Of letting me be free? Of giving me what I want?’

‘Death?’ Gwen asks softly, her voice weighed down with sadness.

‘I don’t know, Gwen. I just... when I feel that way, trapped, helpless, I just want it to be over, you know? It’s not that I want to die. I just want it to be over.’

 

\--

 

Arthur walks slowly from the parking lot, dreading, for once, that he is returning to the flat. He doesn’t know how Merlin’s going to take the news, but he also knows that he has no other choice. 

Shadows lengthen around him as he walks, signalling the end of day. He has never felt more depressed in his life.

He will never tell anyone how he feels, least of all Merlin. Pain, for him, has become like a tablet that he swallows without protest because Merlin must get better. Because the terror of seeing him on the floor that day has not yet dissipated. It still swirls around him like an invisible fog, biding its time, waiting to cloak him again, suffocate him, squeeze the life from him.

Gwen and Lance are curled up on the sofa when he enters, talking quietly. As he had expected, Merlin isn’t with them. He’s barely stepped out of his studio since he returned home from the hospital. 

Arthur looks at his friends and nods silently, letting them know that everything has been arranged. Gwen gets up and hugs him close, and Lance pats him on the pat and says, ‘You’re doing the right thing, mate.’

‘Am I?’ Arthur asks. What he’s about to do feels like the worst sort of betrayal.

 

\--

 

‘Hey,’ Arthur says softly, looking at Merlin sitting cross-legged on the carpet. He’s got a large sketch book open in front of him, the one he uses for charcoal and pencils. He isn’t drawing, just looking at a sketch.

‘Hi,’ Merlin says, looking up. ‘Guess what, I didn’t kill myself today.’ His voice is toneless, not betraying a hint of what he’s feeling.

‘Merlin, that isn’t funny.’

‘Oh, I know. If it were funny I wouldn’t have bodyguards all day, would I?’ Merlin’s still not looking at Arthur, still speaking in that horrible monotone, as though he’s completely uninterested in the topic of conversation.

‘Well, you’ll be happy to hear that you won’t have to tolerate having them around anymore,’ Arthur says much more sharply than he’d intended. _Damn it. This isn’t the way I wanted to break it to him._

‘Why not?’ Merlin inquires very politely, as if he’s asking about the weather. Nevertheless, Arthur knows him too well; he doesn’t miss how Merlin’s tone rises a little, how fear flutters in his eyes, trying not to show itself. He aches to take Merlin in his arms, but he knows the gesture will only make things worse when Merlin is in a black mood.

He takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve... arranged for somewhere else for you to... for you to be cared for.’

He hadn’t expected the tiny indications of fear in Merlin’s expression to transform so startlingly into a mask of pure terror. ‘No,’ Merlin says, his voice barely audible, shrinking back against the wall as though he’s wishing he could disappear inside it. ‘Arthur, please, no.’

Arthur crouches next to him, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s only temporary, until you get better.’

‘I _am_ better,’ Merlin says, his eyes huge and pleading. He clutches at Arthur’s sleeve. ‘Please, I swear I’m better. Look, I’ve been painting. I’ve been... please, Arthur, I’ll do better, I promise. Just don’t... don’t send me away.’

Arthur can’t bear to meet Merlin’s eyes. He knows without having to look that they are both fighting back tears. He tries hard to swallow around the huge obstruction in his throat. ‘You aren’t better, Merlin. And I... I can’t look after you this way, I can’t bear that I can’t help you get better. Gaius has arranged everything, he’ll be there, he’ll look after you the way you deserve to be cared for.’

Merlin moves against Arthur, pushes into him like he’s trying to crawl inside him, breathing in ragged gasps against Arthur’s neck. Arthur clutches him close, silent tears streaming down his face and wetting Merlin’s hair.

 

\--

 

Arthur runs a fingertip down the side of the easel, the half-finished painting against his cheek.

It’s so completely not like holding Merlin that he can bring himself to do it, hold himself against it as though that could make everything right. 

The paint is long since dry. If he scratches a fingertip against it, it’ll start flaking off, falling off the canvas like leaves from a tree. All he does is trace its patterns with his fingers, the desultory movements gentling his thoughts, allowing him to believe that he’ll touch Merlin again someday, like this. Touch his skin and feel his warmth and see laughter in his eyes again instead of excruciating pain.

He does this every morning, has been doing this every morning since he sent Merlin away. It’s become a ritual now, a prayer for the lost. For wherever Merlin is, whatever he’s going through, Arthur is possibly even more lost than he is. The flat seems labyrinthine without Merlin, its rooms and corridors leading nowhere, forming a maze of pain in which he wanders aimlessly. The only place that offers any solace whatsoever is Merlin’s studio, with its sunlight and its smell of paint. 

There is also the memory of Merlin with his back against the wall, curling up into himself, pleading to be allowed to stay. There is also the memory of himself telling Merlin that it’s only temporary, that he’ll be back, that everything will get better.

Maybe he’d lied. Maybe nothing will ever be the same again. 

He presses closer against the canvas, its rough surface nothing at all like the feel of Merlin’s skin.

 

\--

 

‘I’m pretty sure you aren’t allowed to smoke in here,’ Merlin says to the woman leaning against the doorframe. She’s been watching him silently for a couple of days now, almost always with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

Today’s a more lucid day than most. He’s beginning to get used to the medicines that he’s given in the morning, a whole cup of them, enough to form a meal in themselves. They knock him out for most of the day, but he’s gaining a little more control over his evenings. For the last couple of days he’s even managed to sit for a while with a book, reading a little, letting his mind wander a little, consciously trying to get himself out of the day’s drug-induced haze.

‘So sue me,’ the woman laughs, flicking her short, chin-length hair away from her face as she comes out on to the veranda and sits down on the steps beside him. Her piercing eyes search his face for a moment. He doesn’t look away.

‘I’m Morgan,’ she says finally, holding out a hand, and he takes it. ‘Merlin.’

‘You looking for a fuck?’ she asks conversationally.

He laughs, surprising himself. He hadn’t been sure he’d ever laugh again. ‘Nope.’ He plucks the cigarette from her hand, takes a drag, and hands it back.

‘Just as well, I guess,’ she says, leaning back on her elbows and languidly blowing smoke into the evening air. ‘Don’t think my girlfriend would approve.’

‘My boyfriend probably wouldn’t, either.’ The words are out before he can stop himself, and he’s mildly surprised at how little they hurt. _My boyfriend. The one who hasn’t come, the one who hasn’t called._ He strongly suspects that Gaius has asked Arthur to stay away, but it if had been him, he wouldn’t have let that stop him. If he hadn’t been allowed to call or visit, he would have scaled the walls, broken in, broken all the rules just for a glimpse of Arthur.

 

\--

 

It’s a couple of weeks before the cup of pills in the morning is only half-full. ‘Is this right?’ he asks the nurse, the boy with the shaggy hair and the flirtatious grin.

‘Yep,’ Gwaine says. ‘Dr Gaius will be in soon.’

Merlin nods, washes down the pills with the cup of water that Gwaine hands him. Gaius comes every morning to see him, but so far their conversation hasn’t moved beyond the usual niceties and the regular questions that doctors ask patients. 

Gwaine flashes him a grin and a quick wink before he leaves. Smiling a little to himself, Merlin settles on the broad windowsill and lets the sun warm him. For the first time in weeks, his hands feel empty without a brush.

 

\--

 

Getting better is like a cycle. The immediate effect of the reduction in his medication is that the dull haze of numbness is replaced by the darkness again. It creeps on to him in the evenings when it starts to get cold, as though the gathering night were a reflection of what’s inside him.

Gaius has warned him that he will start feeling the depression again, but it still comes as somewhat of a surprise when it starts again. It’s not as strong as it was earlier, and he’s never alone now. There is nothing as terrible as those evenings when he was afraid he would be entirely lost by the time Arthur returned. 

Here, there’s nothing that he can hurt himself with. That doesn’t prevent him from trying.

During one particularly bad episode, he scratches his nails against the wall beside his bed. He feels calm as he does it, the pain and the sight of his blood easing away the terrible pressure inside his chest. It lasts only a minute or two before he’s discovered—they have CCTV—and his fingers are dressed and bandaged before he’s strapped down to his bed, his wrists and ankles restrained. It’s Gwaine’s day off and the head nurse on duty doesn’t know him, doesn’t see him as anyone other than a deranged person trying to destroy himself.

‘Where’s Arthur?’ he demands as soon as Gaius enters his room. ‘Why hasn’t he come?’ It’s the first time that he’s asked about Arthur during their conversations.

‘Is that why you did this?’ Gaius asks, matter of fact. ‘To get his attention?’

Merlin’s about to deny the accusation vehemently, but stops to consider. ‘No,’ he says finally. ‘It was never about him.’ He knows the statement to be honest, even though he’s never thought about it before.

Gaius nods. ‘What was it about? Can you describe it to me?’

‘I didn’t want to kill myself this time.’ He wants to explain, wants Gaius to understand. ‘I. I wanted it to, to hurt. It feels like relief, like turning open a tap. I wouldn’t have gone further than that, Gaius.’

‘I believe you,’ Gaius says in his gentle, reassuring way.

‘Then will you untie me?’

‘Not tonight, Merlin.’

Merlin opens his mouth to argue, but stops himself and turns away. ‘Why not?’ he asks, looking at the wall.

‘I will if you can tell me you’re sure you won’t want to hurt yourself again tonight.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Merlin says after a long moment. He turns his head on the pillow to look at Gaius again. ‘I need... Gaius, if I don’t... hurt myself, it’ll take over. I’ll drown in it. Please.’

‘I know, Merlin,’ Gaius says, and Merlin knows he understands. 

When the pills are increased again the next morning he swallows them down without hesitation. Gwaine smiles at him a little sadly as he takes the cup back. ‘I wish I’d been there last night,’ he says quietly.

‘I know,’ Merlin says. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Would you like to go out this evening? There’s an art exhibit.’

Merlin looks up at him. ‘Am I allowed?’ The thought of going out makes something clench inside him.

‘You are with a chaperone, yes. I’m taking Morgan. It’s her girlfriend’s exhibit.’

‘She’s an artist?’

‘Yeah,’ Gwaine says with a smile. ‘She does some amazing work.’

Merlin nods in acknowledgement of the answer. ‘I can’t,’ he says.

Gwaine nods too. ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he says.

‘I’d like to paint though.’

 

\--

 

‘What do you mean, an episode?’ Arthur asks, something cold and tight wrapping itself around his heart. He clutches the phone tightly as Gaius describes what had happened the previous night.

‘I want to see him,’ he says when Gaius finishes. ‘This isn’t fair on him.’

‘I never said you couldn’t,’ Gaius reminds him.

 

\--

 

‘Hi,’ Merlin says as Arthur enters his room. It’s stark and white. Merlin looks very pale, his hair a little longer, curling over his ears and forehead.

‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur says. ‘I should have come sooner.’

Merlin shrugs. ‘No harm done. I’m fine.’

‘Don’t,’ Arthur says. ‘Please. Yell at me, hit me, but don’t be cold with me.’

Merlin stands up from the desk, letting the pencil he’d been drawing with slip from his fingers to the creamy white sugar paper, his favourite. ‘I’m. Arthur, I’m not trying to be cold. I just... I just want to get out of here now.’

Arthur nods, trying to ignore the coldness that clamps itself around his heart. Trying not to show that this is his worst nightmare, that Merlin will get better but not want him again. ‘Let me get your bag,’ he says, picking up Merlin’s backpack as Merlin gathers his papers and pencils, shoving them into a folder.

It takes very little time to gather Merlin’s few belongings, the majority of which are the sketch books and pencil cases that Merlin carries himself. Arthur hoists the half-empty backpack of clothes on to his back and follows Merlin to Gaius’s office for a final review.

‘You’ve made remarkable progress, Merlin,’ Gaius says, smiling at them from across his desk. ‘I’ll set up weekly appointments for you for the next three months, after which we can review your prescription again.’

‘Thank you,’ Arthur says. ‘For taking care of Merlin.’

‘Is there a clinic near the Artists’ Village you can recommend?’ Merlin asks before Gaius can reply to Arthur’s words. ‘I’m moving there, and I’d like to know where to go in an emergency.’

‘Of course,’ Gaius says, throwing a quick, surprised glance at Arthur before pulling an address book toward him. ‘Let me just... ah, here it is.’ 

Arthur barely registers the doctor’s name and address that Gaius reads out, and that Merlin types quickly into his mobile phone. The possibility that Merlin might leave him had not occurred to him, and to find out like this is sheer heartbreak. He clenches his fingers tight over the arms of his chair, willing his dismay not to show on his face. He doesn’t trust himself to say a word as Merlin says goodbye to Gaius and stands. Arthur manages a nod to Gaius, who throws him a look of sympathy as they leave.

‘You needn’t have come all the way,’ Merlin says outside the building, taking his backpack from Arthur’s hands. ‘I have a ride.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Arthur asks, finding his voice at last. 

‘Doing what?’

‘Damn it, Merlin, don’t play games. You know perfectly well what I mean.’

‘You sent me away, Arthur. Forgive me for not being sure I’d be welcome at your place again.’

‘Merlin,’ Arthur begins, his voice choked now. ‘It’s not... it’s not _my_ place. It’s yours too. It’s your home.’

‘Not anymore,’ Merlin says softly, his voice laced with pain and regret. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur. But what else did you expect? That I’d come back, and we’d carry on as before? Live happily ever after? It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Then how does it work? Tell me, Merlin. I’ll do anything for you, you know that.’

Merlin hitches his backpack over his shoulder to free his hand, and gently cups Arthur’s face. ‘Let me go, Arthur. I asked you that in the hospital, after I... after I was sick. I wanted to die then, but now... I want to stay at the village. Maybe I’ll fit in there, find out where I belong.’

Arthur nods, throat too tight to speak. Merlin’s hand is still against his cheek, warm and steady, and there’s a brightness in his eyes.

A car pulls up beside them, and a gorgeous man with wavy dark hair waves to Merlin from the driver’s seat. 

‘I have to go.’ Merlin blinks rapidly, swallowing hard. ‘I’ll... I’ll pick up my stuff this weekend, okay?’

Arthur nods again, his vision blurred now. Merlin steps close and hugs him fiercely. Arthur’s arms wrap themselves tight around Merlin, crushing their bodies close. And then Merlin pulls away from Arthur’s arms and is gone, the car door opening and shutting quietly, the tyres crunching against the gravel. Arthur stands there for a long time, the sun shining down on him, his face wet.

 

\--

 

It’s two weeks before Arthur sees Merlin again, a fortnight of misery in which he picks up the phone a hundred times to call Merlin and loses his nerve before he can complete the call, in which he composes a thousand text messages before deleting them in despair. The well of hurt and guilt and pain inside him is limitless, colouring his days with blackness, plunging him at nights into fitful sleep and uneasy, unremembered dreams. 

It’s a Saturday morning when Merlin arrives to take his belongings, a time when Arthur’s usually at work. He’s home that day, padding around barefoot in a t-shirt and the cotton trousers he sleeps in. He starts when he hears the key turn in the lock, and barely has time to compose himself before Merlin steps in.

‘Hey,’ Merlin says in surprise. ‘Shouldn’t you—’

‘Be at work? Yeah. I gave myself the day off.’ Arthur doesn’t state what’s painfully obvious: that Merlin had clearly been trying to avoid him.

‘I just. Thought I’d get my things.’ Merlin fidgets as he usually does, unable to stand still for a second, and Arthur almost smiles before he remembers that Merlin being Merlin is not going to be a familiar sight anymore.

To break the awkwardness of the moment, he offers to make tea, and Merlin accepts thankfully and escapes to the bedroom, clutching his empty bag. He returns a few minutes later, zipping it up, a few books under his arm.

‘Here, let me—’ Arthur takes the books from under his arm and finds an empty cardboard carton for them, and they take the box into Merlin’s studio to put his paints and brushes and pencils into it as well. Arthur focuses on the task at hand, trying not to think about the fact that they’re doing this because Merlin’s leaving, because this is no longer his home, because Arthur’s no longer his partner.

Then there’s the easel to pack. It’s too large to fit into a car, so Merlin dismantles it first, unscrewing the legs and tying all the long wooden parts together with rope. Arthur finds a small plastic packet for the screws and bolts, and puts each piece carefully away as Merlin hands it to him. Somehow, taking the easel apart is worse than packing the books and pencils, a literal tearing apart of everything they’d had, of everything his life used to be. Before they’re quite done, he makes the kettle an excuse and flees to the kitchen, busying himself with tea bags and mugs. 

The meagre task is not enough to occupy him, and as he pours hot water over the tea bags, he finds his hands are shaking. It’s impossible to believe that this is happening to him, to them.

‘Hey,’ Merlin says gently from behind him. Before Arthur can turn around, Merlin’s arms are around his waist. He stays still, his eyes stinging, letting Merlin cling to him from behind. Merlin presses his cheek to Arthur’s shoulder. ‘I miss you. God, Arthur, I miss you like crazy,’ he mumbles into Arthur’s skin, lips pressing against the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Arthur turns around in his arms, pulling him close, stroking his hair, his back, as soothingly as he can. ‘I miss you too. All the time,’ he says into Merlin’s hair, kissing the side of his head.

Merlin turns his face into Arthur’s and their resolve is lost in an instant as they clutch at each other, kissing frantically. Merlin whimpers into Arthur’s mouth, the soft, pliant sound in contrast to the desperate movements of his hands, grasping at Arthur, dragging him even closer, pushing up his shirt, desperate for the feel of Arthur’s bare skin beneath his hands. His movements make Arthur dizzy with want, like he’s gotten too high too quickly.

‘Merlin,’ he gasps, taking hold of Merlin’s wrists, stilling him. ‘Wait, please, wait.’

‘Arthur, let me, please, just let me—’

Stopping Merlin then is the hardest thing Arthur’s possibly ever had to do. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asks gently. ‘Merlin, don’t make things harder for yourself. If we... if we do this, you’ll find it that much more difficult to leave.’

For a moment, Merlin looks as though he’s been slapped. Then he nods, slumping against Arthur, his wrists still loosely held by Arthur’s hands. ‘When did you become so bloody wise?’ he sighs, his face hidden in Arthur’s neck. Arthur holds him close, wanting him desperately, needing to make love to him, wanting to push him away before his resolve breaks. 

_Stay_ , he wants to say in desperation. _Stay, we don’t have to do this, you don’t have to leave._

But there is another voice at the back of his mind, the one that’s telling him that even though this is monstrously painful, Merlin is better now than he’s been in months, maybe in years. Whatever he’s been doing is clearly good for him, is helping him heal. Maybe it’s _whom_ he’s doing, he thinks with a sharp pang of jealousy, remembering the man who’d driven Merlin away after their last meeting.

‘Are you happy? At the Artists’ Village?’ he asks as Merlin pulls away. He picks up his mug of tea and hands one to Merlin.

Merlin takes a sip before he answers. ‘I don’t... I can’t say if I am. I feel better now, in my head. I get depressed when I think of you, when I miss you. But it’s different from before. It doesn’t make me want to hurt myself. Not so much. Earlier, it was like...’ he trails off for a minute, looking around the room as though he’s not really seeing what’s in front of him.

‘Like what?’ Arthur presses gently, wanting him to talk. Part of him, the part that had looked after Merlin, been his caregiver for months, cheers quietly at how much progress Merlin has made, from wanting to destroy himself to being able to hold a conversation about his illness.

‘Like...’ Merlin looks back at him, his eyes bright, vivid with understanding. ‘Like there was darkness everywhere, and when I tried to make it better, it was just multiplied. Like trying to make it better made it worse. Like... everything I did was false, a kind of escapism. My art, our relationship, everything.’

‘Oh, Merlin,’ Arthur says softly. ‘I wish... I’m just... I’m sorry. For everything you’ve been through. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you like this now.’ He touches Merlin’s face with his fingertips. Again, he fights back the impulse to ask Merlin to reconsider, to stay, but knows that it would be far too selfish to voice the request.

‘Don’t come to the car,’ Merlin says as he finishes his tea and gathers his things. The look in his eyes seems to say: _Or I may not be able to go through with it._

Arthur sees him to the door, where Merlin pauses at the threshold, his arms laden with his things. ‘Guess I’ll see you around,’ Merlin says, and then groans. ‘Fuck, that sounds so lame.’

Arthur leans forward to kiss him on the forehead. ‘Go on, get out of here before I decide I don’t want to let you go,’ he says, not quite able to meet Merlin’s eyes, despite his light-hearted tone. He watches until Merlin gets into the lift, and then shuts the door and slumps down to the floor against it. The silence in the flat has never seemed louder.

 

\--

 

Arthur looks up at the shiny veneer of one of the biggest art galleries in town. A large black-and-white poster on a pillar just inside the entrance announces an exhibition of the works of Merlin Emrys, with a print of an abstract drawing in charcoal.

It’s three months since Merlin left, during which they’ve exchanged a few texts, a couple of emails and exactly one phone call. Even the email from Merlin inviting him to the exhibition had been sent to everyone on Merlin’s mailing list, nothing but a short note with the date and address, and a polite message saying it would be great if the recipient could attend. 

Arthur takes a deep breath and steps in. A couple of people passing by stare at him curiously and whisper to each other, and he self-consciously flattens his hair, wondering if he’s forgotten to brush it.

Feeling more glances cast at him as he walks further into the gallery, he stops in front of a dark, glass-covered painting to look at his reflection. Nothing seems glaringly out of place, so he gives himself a mental shrug and moves on.

When he reaches the gallery where Merlin’s work is exhibited on the walls, it’s full of people milling around, talking animatedly, laughing. He looks around for Merlin, but there isn’t a familiar face in sight. 

And then he reaches the centrepiece of the exhibit, and it’s immediately apparent why people have been staring at him. In front of him, much larger than life, is his own face. It’s black and white like most of Merlin’s work, with light and dark playing with each other, one side of his face sunny and the other cast in shadows. There’s a half-smile on his lips, both his eyes shining as they gaze from the canvas at someone beyond. He recognises the French window behind him as the one in the room that had been Merlin’s studio when they’d lived together.

‘Do you like it?’ A voice asks quietly from behind him, and he turns around to find Merlin looking at him anxiously. ‘I didn’t... I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t get the chance, things have been pretty hectic. You don’t mind, do you?’

He barely hears a word of Merlin’s nervous babbling as he looks at him. He’s looking _gorgeous_ , dressed all in black, his hair glossy and dark, falling over his forehead and curling over his ears. Unthinkingly, he reaches out and tucks a wayward strand behind Merlin’s ear, and Merlin closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

‘Arthur,’ he says, his eyes still closed. 

Arthur drops his hand, suddenly conscious of where they are, and of the curious glances that they’re definitely getting now.

Merlin’s eyes snap open. ‘Say something?’

‘You look fabulous,’ Arthur says simply. ‘I can’t stop looking at you. And this,’ he gestures around at the gallery, ‘this is all amazing. You’re amazing.’

Merlin nods toward the painting they’re standing in front of. ‘And your painting?’ He still sounds nervous.

Arthur turns to it again. ‘It’s... Merlin, it’s extraordinary.’

‘You don’t mind?’ Merlin asks again.

‘No, of course not. If anything, I’m honoured.’ He reaches out to squeeze Merlin’s shoulder warmly. ‘And it’s good to see all those hours you made me pose weren’t for nothing, after all,’ he adds, teasing gently, and is relieved to see Merlin grin broadly in response.

‘Prat,’ Merlin says affectionately, right before he envelopes Arthur in a close hug.

Arthur hugs him back for a moment, warmth coursing through him at the familiar sense of closeness. 

‘I missed you,’ Merlin breathes against his ear before they break apart all too soon.

Arthur nods, at a loss for words. One of Merlin’s hands is still fisted in his shirt. ‘Gwen and Lance came by earlier,’ Merlin says. ‘When I didn’t see you, I though you weren’t... that you wouldn’t come.’

‘Even if you’d ordered me to stay away, I’d have broken in or something,’ Arthur says lightly, making Merlin smile again. 

‘I have to... Will you... can we talk? Later? Will you stay for a while?’ Merlin asks.

‘I’d like that,’ Arthur says quickly. ‘Go on, talk to your fans,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll be here.’

Merlin’s answering smile is nothing short of radiant. ‘Thanks, Arthur.’ He finally lets go of Arthur’s shirt, smoothing the crumpled fabric with his hand.

 

\--

 

Arthur’s in the little tea shop attached to the art gallery, nursing a mug of hot chocolate between his hands, when Merlin finally shows up. He looks tired but happy, laughter lining his face as he slips into the seat opposite Arthur.

‘I’m sorry you had to wait,’ he says ruefully, pushing his fingers back through his hair and mussing it up even more.

‘It’s no bother,’ Arthur smiles, pushing his mug of chocolate across the table. 

Merlin takes a long sip before handing the mug back. ‘Do you want to get out of here? Maybe go back to mine?’

Despite himself, Arthur hesitates. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I didn’t mean—God, Arthur, I didn’t mean I wanted to—I mean—’

‘I know,’ Arthur says quickly. The music in the background changes to a ridiculously cheerful bolero, and he lets the chords of the guitar pull him to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he says, taking Merlin’s hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

 

\--

 

They take Merlin’s Audi back to his flat at the Artist’s Village, driving through pouring rain with Merlin shooting glances at Arthur when he thinks Arthur isn’t looking, and Arthur forcing himself to keep from touching Merlin to calm him down. He’s full of nervous energy, one hand clutching the steering wheel and the other clamped tightly over the gear stick.

Merlin’s first-floor flat has a spacious living room with a little balcony that has a gorgeous view, and a separate bedroom with its own bathroom. 

‘I’m surprised you didn’t get a studio flat,’ Arthur says as Merlin moves behind him and tugs his coat off. ‘You always said more than one room was a waste of space.’

‘For one person, yeah,’ Merlin says, laying Arthur’s coat over the arm of a chair. ‘I was kind of hoping to, you know, share the place.’

‘Oh,’ Arthur says, looking away. Maybe things with the gorgeous man had been more serious than he’d thought. The sudden thought makes him look back at Merlin. ‘You do live alone, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Merlin says. ‘Why would you think otherwise?’

‘I just thought... you said you wanted to share the place.’

‘With _you_ , Arthur,’ Merlin says, rolling his eyes. 

‘Me?’ Arthur says stupidly, stunned.

‘Not that you’d want to, or anything,’ Merlin says quickly. ‘I just thought, maybe, eventually, you may... I don’t know, Arthur.’ He turns away. ‘I don’t know what I thought. I just... No one else knows me the way you do. You’ve been there through everything, and I... I couldn’t just cut you out of my life.’

‘But you tried?’ Arthur asks softly, trying not to let himself get too hopeful.

‘ _No_ ,’ Merlin says fiercely, stepping closer, clasping Arthur’s wrist. ‘Arthur, no. I never had any doubts about you. I just... I needed to feel better again, you know? Find myself again.’

‘And have you?’ Arthur rests a hand against Merlin’s cheek, his thumb caressing the soft skin behind Merlin’s ear. ‘Found yourself again?’

Merlin nuzzles into Arthur’s touch, pressing his lips to Arthur’s fingers. ‘I don’t know. I’m working, generally feeling better. I think I’m doing better.’

‘You are,’ Arthur says, drawing Merlin into his arms and kissing his forehead. ‘Look at what you’ve accomplished, all those people at the exhibition.’

Merlin makes a non-committal sound, burrowing into Arthur’s arms, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck and hiding his face in Arthur’s shirt. 

Arthur draws back a little, taking Merlin’s face in his hands and brushing a gentle kiss against his lips. Merlin kisses back immediately, little presses of his lips on Arthur’s, tentative and warm, somehow more intimate than the deeper, more salacious kisses they’ve shared in the past.

Merlin’s hands grasp Arthur’s hips, pushing him gently but firmly back into the sofa. Arthur lets himself be led, lying back and guiding Merlin on top of him. Merlin seems content to lie quiet in Arthur’s arms for the moment, so Arthur doesn’t push for more, enjoying Merlin’s closeness, the way their breaths synchronise, the quiet contentment radiating from Merlin as he curls in close.

‘Thank you,’ Arthur murmurs after a while, stroking Merlin’s hair. ‘For the painting.’

Merlin lifts his head, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s neck, his jaw, his mouth. ‘I had to draw what I knew,’ he says simply.

The words steal Arthur’s breath away, the kiss that follows even more so. Merlin takes his mouth like a starving man, whimpering with need as the kiss gets deeper and wetter and they begin to move together. Arthur wraps his legs around Merlin’s hips, his hands gliding over Merlin’s back, letting his senses get engulfed by Merlin’s scent, his taste.

‘Can you do this?’ Merlin asks breathlessly, breaking the kiss for a moment. ‘Is there—is there anyone else?’

‘No, you idiot,’ Arthur says affectionately, cupping the nape of Merlin’s neck and rubbing their noses together. ‘There’s no one else, just you, always.’

‘Thank goodness,’ Merlin says fervently, resting his forehead against Arthur’s. ‘I’d have died of jealousy, I swear.’

‘How do you think I felt when you drove off with that gorgeous man?’ Arthur teases, even as his fingers unbuckle Merlin’s belt.

‘Gwaine?’ Merlin grins. ‘Yeah, I guess that didn’t look too good.’ He gasps as Arthur takes them both in hand, stroking upwards, his thumb circling around the head of Merlin’s cock. ‘God, Arthur, that’s good, that’s so good.’

It doesn’t take long for either of them to reach completion with Merlin kissing Arthur with desperate enthusiasm, his hand joining Arthur’s as they glide against each other, panting into each other’s mouths, tasting each other, their bodies responding to each other’s with delightful familiarity. 

‘Arthur?’ Merlin says later, still wrapped around Arthur, neither of them quite willing to move yet. Arthur doesn’t even mind that they’re rather sticky.

‘Mm?’ 

‘Will you think about it? Moving in with me? I know it’s too soon, but...’

‘It isn’t too soon,’ Arthur says, his arms tightening protectively around Merlin. ‘It’s been months. It isn’t too soon.’

‘You mean you’ll—’

‘Yes, Merlin. Anything you want.’

‘Wow. I should run away more often,’ Merlin says cheekily, but his eyes are shining with gratitude and something else that Arthur doesn’t want to put a name to.

‘Idiot,’ Arthur says, tweaking Merlin’s ear. He ends up sounding affectionate and relieved rather than light-hearted, but Merlin just gives him a half-smile, his body warm and solid and reassuring against Arthur’s.

‘Prat,’ Merlin says, and pulls Arthur into a kiss.

 

~end


End file.
